"It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so very deeply." -unknown

Our July 4th was a shimmering wisp of gold. It was a couple of days we could not have earned, could not have grasped for ourselves, and in its essence, we knew we could only enjoy it, for any further thinking would've only squandered the occasion.

I left Fayetteville mid-morning, making the northern trek up to Lake Ontario with one of my best friends. She had welcomed John and I to join her family on their boat for the holiday and honestly, though I genuinely sweated over missing the local parade (I am actually insane, more on my parade obsessions later), we had an early sensation that we'd be missing out if we said no. Thank God we listened to those hunches. Driving with her would have been enough. But by some sort of graces it was only a portion.

I became a bit of a child on that boat. Wooden panelling EVERYWHERE? I made dramatic gasping noises. I'm pretending to be the captain in this photo above.

The events were special because they added to my perspective. A perspective I've been slowly etching like an elderly carpenter for a couple of months. I got out of this small town. I interacted with polite strangers. I admired my friend's parents and shared thoughts with them. I marveled at small children and observed, though the differences, how very similar people are no matter where you find yourself.

We went to dinner in the evening, us and the entire family. John and I glided above reality. We drank a summery cocktail and laughed heartily, honestly what I would imagine it would feel like to participate in an evening hosted by a non-fictional Jay Gatsby.

The photo above is the blurry greatness of the product of said cocktails and laughter. Perhaps still riding the high of wedding season, we made our way to the small and still mostly unpopular dance floor. This was the threshold of my growing perspective. As I joyfully got my groove on, noticing quickly that I was embarrassing myself more than I had budgeted for (and loving it) I looked across the garden. A couple of my customers were there. As. I. danced. Call it what it was. Hilarious. Unfortunate. Getting to say hi to them later in the night, I found myself thankful for a job where community is inevitable, despite how much I begrudge it. I could look my life as an outsider almost, and I felt warmth as I glanced through the lens.

We savored that golden night as it glistened almost blindingly for us and among us. We came back a little more brown, facing a week's worth of abandoned dishes (*still waiting for me*) and an extremely busy month. We are on schedule for some big changes ahead, and our time by the water was the most appropriate experience to prepare us. There's just something about water.